


but world enough, and time

by obstinatrix



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Feels, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Steve doesn't have a plan, and as far as he knows, nor does anyone else, but Bucky's out of cryo, and that's not nothing. (Alternatively: Steve takes baths when he's stressed; Bucky finds this as intriguing in modern-day Wakanda as he ever did in 1940s Brooklyn.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this almost entirely because of this gif http://67.media.tumblr.com/3dd60a2935c9f099858e6cc5fb47bf4d/tumblr_mtjsq6zusQ1rt9hv0o1_500.gif 
> 
> (nsfw but very lovely)

It's noiseless, but Steve feels it the moment the door opens, the dense air in the bathroom changing shape to accommodate another body. Air ripples cool between his shoulderblades, but his senses say _friend_ and the warmth of the bathwater is too pleasant to abandon. It's the first time Steve's been anything close to comfortable in days. He tips his head back against the side of the bath and shifts a little in lazy acknowledgement. "Hey." 

He expects, if pressed to a judgement call, Natasha: Sam would've made a hell of a lot more noise with the door, his footfalls unconcerned on the tiles. So the two big hands that cover Steve's eyes are startling, and Steve's spine stiffens, although the spirit-level of his hyper-tuned body still doesn't seem to fear an attack. He lifts one hand tentatively, grips the solid warmth of a man's wrist. "Sam?" 

" _Sam_?" Laughter, barely-restrained, and a thread of indignance. "I need to thank His Royal Highness for his deft handiwork for sure, if that's what you thought, but maybe I also oughta kick Wilson's ass." 

" _Buck_." Steve'd know that voice anywhere; every atom in his body knows it, relaxing palpably into the water. It isn't Steve's fault he's not yet used to having Bucky around like this again with two good hands, the left one skin-warm and soft, a miracle of modern science. Some kind of silicone, T'Challa had said: it reminds Steve of the spongey things in Nat's makeup bag; of the shaft of his most indulgent dildo. Steve keeps meaning to let Bucky know about that one. He'd undoubtedly get a kick out of the comparison. 

"Damn right it's me," Bucky grumbles, but good-naturedly, and his fingers flex against Steve's cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. 

When he'd first come back, there'd been a certain stiffness in Bucky's voice, the words too rhotic and the vowels too clean. But now, Steve can hear the Brooklyn in it, the sound of Bucky coming home. He closes his eyes and leans back as Bucky's grip loosens, one hand slipping from Steve's eyes to trace his jawline, then the wet promontory of his clavicle. 

"You wanna get in?" The words sound lazy even to Steve's own ears, but there's something soporific about the way Bucky is touching him: the gentle motions of his big hands, sure, but also the simple _fact_ of it, of Bucky's hands on Steve's face and throat, posing no shadow of a threat. It's been six weeks since Bucky came out of cryo, three since he slipped into Steve's bed and woke him with possessive kisses to the nape of his neck, and Steve can't get over how all of it feels like a dream. The rest of the world may be falling apart, but here in Wakanda, James Buchanan Barnes is palming the dip of Steve's sternum with bathwater lapping at his wrist, and Steve's going to take a minute to think on that and that only. 

"I'm good right here," Bucky says, and Steve feels the pressure of his chin against the top of his head, the hitch of Bucky's broad chest as he inhales. "Kind of enjoying the view, to be honest." 

Steve's mouth curls. There's a clear salaciousness in Bucky's tone, and Steve's body reacts to it with almost shameful immediacy, his skin prickling with interest, that warmth starting up low in his belly. "Oh yeah?" 

" _Hell_ yeah, are you kidding me?" Bucky's voice is plaintive, and Steve doesn't need to see to know what look's on his face. " _Stevie_." 

Steve laughs aloud, and God, it's good to laugh again, to feel the bubble of remembered joy in his chest at this easy back-and-forth between the two of them. He knows there are a billion things that need his attention, Bucky's continuing mental health among them, but when Buck's like this, light and teasing and all over Steve like ice cream on a hot day, he can let himself forget about it, just for the moment. Bucky always had that talent, always. When Steve's concerns were the tightness in his chest and the stitching coming out of his boots, Bucky was there with his grin and his exaggerated swagger and his cocky back-home drawl. So much has changed since then, about both of them, but some things, it turns out, are constant, and Steve thanks everything he knows that this is one of them. 

Bucky's hand works its way to Steve's armpit in a smooth glide and then to the swell of his pectoral muscle, cupping, and Steve lets his back arch, pushing up into the touch. Bucky must be on his knees, though his movements are silent as ever, 'cause Steve can feel the heat of his breath at his hairline, damp little exhalations. The warmth of the bath already had Steve relaxed, and the unpredictable shifts of Bucky's fingers make his nipples pull tight in anticipation, nerves prickling under the skin. 

Bucky notices, of course. He presses his face to the soft place behind Steve's ear and laughs, low; squeezes a little, kneading the muscle. "Forgot how much you like gettin' your tits played with, damn. Look at you, babe." 

His other hand rounds Steve's shoulders to mirror its mate. Steve lets his head loll back and groans. "That's not all I like, you know." 

"Yeah, yeah." Bucky keeps up the unhurried motion of his hands, lets his thumbs slip over the buds of Steve's nipples, shocking a raw little sound from him. "Just give me a minute, okay? Let a guy appreciate." 

Steve can't argue with that, not really; not with how goddamn _good_ Bucky is at this, his touches just the right side of firm, possessive without ever being invasive. Ridiculous, that once upon a time Steve'd worried how Bucky might react to the way his body looked now, when once he'd been Bucky's little slip of a thing, his wiry boy. For weeks after the Zola break, he'd held himself back, crushing down every desire as it rose up, every urge in his newly-massive arms to reach out for Bucky. Steve can still remember how it ached, that dismal conviction that a real man like Bucky wouldn't want to make time with a guy over six feet of solid muscle, bigger than he was. They'd fought about it, in the end, and Bucky had punched him and then fucked him, slow and hard, mapping every divot and curve of Steve's new body until Steve felt he almost belonged in it. Turned out Buck was partial to any kind of body as long as Steve was inside it, and he knew like no one else that nothing had changed about who Steve _was_. Steve wanted what he always had, to be kissed on and made much of and adored. He'd been ashamed of it when he was small, 'cause it was exactly what the guys at the docks expected from a little guy, and Bucky had coaxed him out of that then, kissing every bony inch of Steve's narrow little form till he'd learned to want what he wanted and be who he was, no regrets. And he was ashamed of it all over again when he got big, 'cause big guys shouldn't want to spread their thighs for other men: but there was Bucky like always with his hot mouth and hot words, kneading Steve's hourglass curves and calling him _my bombshell, my guy_. And here's Bucky now, against all odds, stilling Steve's restless mind with his hands.

As long as he's Bucky's guy, Steve thinks, he can cope with anything. 

"You should get in," Steve murmurs, pressing his face back against Bucky's, catlike. It's barely been five minutes, but his skin is singing under Bucky's touch, cock filling under the water, a function of this body to which Bucky's always been partial. He lifts his chin and cranes his neck, seeking, and Bucky gives him what he's after, nips at his lower lip and then slots their mouths together. It's easy, familiar like nothing else is these days: the lush swell of Bucky's mouth curving against Steve's and the ticklish brush of his tongue to Steve's soft palate. Steve closes his eyes, sinking into it, and Bucky breathes out hard through his nose, bites at Steve again as he pulls away. 

Steve makes an inarticulate unhappy noise and pushes back, lips parted, and Bucky laughs, grants him another kiss and then another, little clinging things before he grumbles, "Quit it, Rogers," like he's irritated. Steve decides he can afford to expend a little energy lifting an arm out of the water and curving it back until he can cup Bucky's head, twisting his fingers in the thick hair until Bucky arches his neck, hissing. 

"What's that for?" The tilt of Bucky's head belies his tone. He nuzzles at Steve's cheek and Steve grins; kisses him though the angle is awkward. Bucky's always had a real kissable mouth, one that's worth a little discomfort. 

"You gonna get in or what?" Steve demands, and Bucky's eyes flutter closed for a minute. When he opens them again, the irises are hot and blue, and Steve's caught unawares when Bucky slides one palm down the flat of his stomach to scritch and tug at the wiry thatch of hair below his navel. 

"I'd rather you got out," Bucky murmurs. "Fooling around in water never did go well for us or anyone, but hey, if you wanna chance a cracked skull --" 

"I'm gettin' out," Steve says decidedly, and takes hold of the sides of the bath to suit action to word. 

Water sluices from him in heavy curtains as he stands and both of them laugh at the sheer volume of it, the seismic shift Steve's bulk occasions as he moves. Bucky's hands go to Steve's waist immediately on the premise of supporting him, but Steve gives him a shrewd look as he braces himself on Bucky's shoulder and swings himself to the floor. Bucky is unrepentant, one eyebrow quirking, and Steve's pulse picks up as he lands heavily on the bathmat and Bucky's big hands slide up his back, holding him close. 

"You're gonna get all wet," Steve says, deliberately lame, rolling the words under his tongue. Even barefoot, he's got an inch on Bucky, but still it's second nature to dip his head just enough that he can eye Bucky coyly through a dark fan of lashes. 

"I better," Bucky says, and kisses him, the press of it inevitable and fierce. And, Jesus, nobody's ever kissed Steve like Bucky does, so full of want and honesty, the rush of it making him fuzzy behind the eyes. Face-on, Bucky's free to grab two handsful of Steve's ass, hard enough to force Steve up onto his tiptoes, weight full on Bucky's chest. Bucky's slighter than he was before the cryo, but he takes it like a brick wall, not even a tremor, and Steve's filled with a remembered, particular heat. Sometimes, he feels like a goddamn elephant, afraid to fully settle on anything for fear of breaking it, but Bucky can match him with one arm and overpower him with two, and the knowledge makes Steve's breath short in his throat. 

"You couldn't'a done this some place with a bed?" Steve aims for petulant but falls somewhere between impatient and amused, his voice softened at the edges from their kissing. Bucky seems to approve, because the next Steve knows he's getting kissed some more and his feet are leaving the tiles, just barely, as Bucky hefts and turns him in his arms. He hears Bucky gasp with effort, an uncommon vulnerability, and for a moment Steve's sixteen again, illicitly thrilled at Buck's manhandling. 

Then Steve's knees hit the back of the window seat as Bucky heaves him onto it, and the illusion is gone. There wasn't one piece of furniture in their two-room shithole in Brooklyn that didn't creak like Almighty God under Steve's ninety-five pound weight: this thing, sturdy and immutable and piled high with cushions, is King's-command construction. The cushions are silk or something like it, cool and smooth and Bucky bears him right down into the softness of them, his thigh between Steve's legs, denim rough against skin. 

"All right," Steve manages, "all right all right --" but Bucky's half-laughing, kissing him, rubbing his stubble in the curve of Steve's neck. Steve clutches a fistful of his hair and almost succeeds in stopping him with a good firm yank, but then Bucky hums in his throat and twists a little and Steve lets go, falls back panting. 

"Stay put, you," Bucky says, and then he's teething at Steve's nipple and it's all Steve can do just to paw at his shoulders, grasping weakly at the neck of his t-shirt. 

Bucky's gorgeous like this, head down and his hair falling in his eyes, and Steve takes a moment to draw breath and marvel. That Bucky feels safe in a t-shirt and jeans is progress on a monumental scale already; that he doesn't protest when Steve fists his hands in the cotton between Bucky's shoulderblades and hauls it upward -- well. Steve'll think about who to thank for that later. It's probably a combination of people. Everyone's been so goddamn good about this, pulling together for Steve in a way that still astounds him. 

"What're you thinking about?" Bucky demands, and Steve blinks and reasserts his grip, tugging hard until Bucky ducks his head obligingly, lets Steve drag the shirt all the way off. 

"You," Steve says, never quite a lie, and Bucky grins in a way that says he's gotten the answer he wanted. 

"Keep it that way, you hear?" Bucky says, and takes his left hand from Steve's waist to flick open his belt. 

He's hard -- hell, he's _been_ hard; Steve as good as smelled it on him the moment he touched Steve's skin, but now Steve can feel the heat of it, sees the fat curve of his dick distorting the front placket of his jeans. When the button pops open, Steve practically groans, feeling the imagined thrust of it in his throat when Bucky's cock forces its way past the zipper. 

"You like that?" Bucky says, talking too much like always. Clothes are nothing but an encumbrance now, the open jeans and boxers half-translucent where the crown of Bucky's slick cock has rested, and he shoves them aside with a curse, sotto voce. "You want that, sweetheart?" 

Bucky has big hands, long fingers, but they don't look so huge stretched around the base of his cock and Steve bites his lip, hips jerking up reflexively. 

"Yeah." As if it's even a question. Steve's said yes every time: yes to Bucky's mouth on his and to Bucky's hand in the front of his drawers in their narrow little bed; yes to Bucky's thick cock in his mouth and Bucky's fingers inside him; yes and yes and _yes_. But Bucky keeps asking, maybe 'cause he knows he'll never hear anything else. Maybe not. Steve says _yes_ anyway, spreads his thighs, and Bucky's on him in a hot minute, knuckling at his taint, at the tight furl of his hole. 

Once upon a time this took forever, Bucky working Steve open till his arm ached with the effort and Steve was slick with sweat all over. Now, though -- Steve doesn't know if it's the serum or something else, but when Bucky fetches the slick from his jeans and pushes into him that way, Steve's body opens for it like it's what he was made for. Like his body knows Bucky, remembers the perfect agony of having him sheathed to the hilt in Steve, where he belongs. Bucky's two fingers in to the last knuckle in two minutes flat, and Steve's chest is heaving like a bellows, his whole body centred on the place where Bucky's in him, lighting him up from the inside. 

"Please," he gets out, "Buck --" 

Sometimes, Bucky makes him beg, drags it out of him. That was always one of his tricks back home; the first time he did it in Wakanda, Steve went half out of his mind not just with the heat of it but also what it signified, about Bucky and about them. Today, though, he's grateful to the core when Bucky doesn't tease, just pushes in and buries his face in Steve's throat as he starts to move, trapping Steve's cock against his belly. 

"I've got you," Steve hears himself say, as Bucky rocks into him and out again; as Bucky fills him up over and over. It's slow at first, then faster; Steve's hands slip on Bucky's back and clutch at his waist, and the words trip over his tongue again and again, like a mantra: "I've got you. I've got you." 

" _Steve_ ," Bucky says, and Steve hears everything in it, like always: his name safe in Bucky's mouth like nowhere else; his name an affirmation and a promise. "Steve --" 

"I've got you," Steve whispers, his hips in Bucky's hands and working onto him, faster, now; he can feel Bucky pulsing inside him like he's close and Steve's chest is tight, the pressure of it building in his gut. "I've gotcha, I've gotcha, I'm _here_." 

Bucky comes like a punch, a cry wrenched out of his throat so sharp it takes Steve a minute to realise he's echoed it, their voices gone ragged-rough together. After a minute, Bucky churns his hips again, rolling through the aftershock, and Steve feels the cliff rise up to meet him at the motion, Bucky in his arms, his weight heavy on Steve's chest. Bucky's breaths are ragged in Steve's ear, and his scalp is blood-hot and damp with sweat when Steve cards shaky fingers through his hair. 

"I'm here," Steve says, careful, when he finds his voice again, because it's true: perhaps the only perfect truth he can offer in the chaos the world's become. 

Bucky doesn't say anything, but he takes Steve's hand in his, twines their fingers. It's a minute before Steve realises it's Bucky's left hand. The silicone is warm and soft, like skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and talk to me on Tumblr! I'm obstinatrix there, as everywhere.


End file.
